


Burn Off the Shame

by writermouse



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub, F/M, Incest, Mental Health Issues, Punishment, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Unreliable Narrator, Worship, heavy submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 19:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17494301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writermouse/pseuds/writermouse
Summary: Korekiyo receives a spanking from his Sister.





	Burn Off the Shame

“Come here, Korekiyo,” my sister’s voice had a quality that is honestly a bit difficult to put into words. It was beautiful, of course, it always was, but there was a certain hardness to the tone that made my throat tighten and squeeze and tears gather in my eyes. There was a measure of cruelty there, an emotion I couldn’t really identify with or understand. I could never treat her how she treats me, even if she upset me the same way, and reflecting on that was often rather strange. Her eyes were downcast, she wasn’t bothering to look at me, as she knew that I would obey her, and the position and expression communicated a soft sadness. I had disappointed her. 

My body obeys fairly automatically, but one should not take that to mean that it is involuntary. It is true that I move before I’ve properly thought through what will happen, before I actually have any intention at all, but it is only because she is my Sister. Only because I trust her. She has my submission in all things and I needn’t consciously process anything to act on that. I rise from my place, seated across from her, and take two steps on the soft carpet that muffles my footfalls. Silence befits the situation as I have nothing to say in my defense and my body ought not be so obtrusive as to call her attention to it.

I stand in front of her, close enough that a stray breeze may blow her hair forward enough to touch me easily. She sits properly, ankles tucked together and feet slightly to the side from her knees. Her hands are folded in her lap, long, lovely fingers interlocked at the ends, and the handle of a wooden hairbrush rests between them. My eyes stay down, even as hers raise to my face. She’s wondering about my emotional state. Does my silence indicate that I agree with the actions to follow or merely that I don’t find it to be my place to argue? Ultimately, there is little difference, but the truth is the former, which she will find at the point in this process when she asks for my apology. But that is still a long ways off. 

She shifts her position in preparation for my punishment. Her feet plant themselves on the floor in a straight line down from her knees for additional stability. It’s fairly unnecessary, I am small and I don’t struggle. But she prefers it and who am I to argue? The hairbrush is lifted in one delicate hand and moved to beside her on the couch, it won’t be used first, after all. She straightens her back as well, pulling up to her full height, including proper posture. I’m smaller anyway, several years her junior, but she holds herself tall and I don’t, so the difference is more striking. Her long, dark hair is already bound behind her, save for the wisps that frame her face. Mine is loose and will fall like a curtain to hide my face, as soon as I am properly positioned. 

“Bend over,” her next directive is softer, my immediate compliance has done some to assuage her anger, though it will still be relevant until we’ve completed this ritual. 

The ritual is one of the most cathartic things imaginable. Humans love ritual in all things, of course, but in dealing with our emotions, there is really no substitute. It allows control over that which is fairly inherently uncontrollable. If Sister were to strike me without warning, in a moment of passion, I would be quite hurt and terrified, but she is under control, I can see that. She has channelled her feelings into this, which is easy to understand, and somewhat predictable. Humanity is beautiful, unpredictability is beautiful, but in these events, it would be my undoing. I’m not so detached that I can only consider my own suffering beautiful, though it is, I must also live through it. My own feelings are channelled through this as well. It hurts that I’ve failed. The guilt and shame I feel would be overwhelming, but I know where to put the feelings. 

I follow instructions, slowly lowering myself over her thighs. I rest my hips against the edge of her one of her thighs, the base of my rib cage against the edge of the other. My stomach lies across them. I’m thin enough that my weight being balanced this way is not uncomfortable or any sort of problem. The balls of my feet can still touch the floor if I want them to, but I imagine I’ll be pitched forward soon enough and that won’t be an option. She hasn’t told me anything to do with my hands, leaving me to assume the default. I’m meant to hold something so that I won’t be tempted to throw my hand back to prevent further pain, should I be overwhelmed with my punishment. She’s kind to allow me a crutch to resist the temptation, and, should I fail, she will also be kind enough to prevent my further interference by binding my hands. I curl my fingers around an embroidered throw cushion, and pull it close, resting my forehead against it. My mask still hides my mouth, and I don’t do more to cover it, as Sister likes to hear my reaction more clearly. My hair is swept to the outside, falling over my shoulder towards the floor.

“I don’t like when you leave me alone, Korekiyo,” her voice is sweet now; she’s appealing to my abiding love for her, and it certainly works. More guilt twists in my gut and I clench my jaw to bear it. “What was more important than spending time with me?” 

“Nothing, Sister,” my answer is honest and immediate, but she misunderstands. She lifts her hand once and strikes down, hard, against my thigh. It’s dulled by the protection of my pants, but I understand it as intended. It’s a warning. I’m to tell the truth, not guess at what she wants to hear, although I was doing that already. I must find a better way to communicate my thoughts. It pains my heart more than my warming thigh to have disappointed her again. “I’m so sorry. I meant to say that I did not think that something was more important than spending time with you. I was late merely because I became distracted and lost track of time.” 

“Am I not worth more considered actions than that, sweet Korekiyo?” her fingers dance over the spot where she struck me, a timely reminder to consider my responses more carefully. I shift slightly forward, reacting to her touch. “I thought you would be excited to see me home from the hospital today.” 

“It is the Joy among joys, my dear sister,” I rush to reassure her. Soothing her hurt feelings is far more important than any other aspect of this conversation, though I do know it violates the standard call and response model that I’m meant to confine myself to. I raise up on my elbow and turn my face to hers so that she can see the truth written in my eyes, “Being with you is the pinnacle of ecstasy, such wondrous happiness is barely accessible to mortal man. I would trade any other experience on this earth for the pleasure of being by your side.” 

I am rewarded with the ghost of a smile before she hits me again, this time a bit higher, on the buttock, and much harder. A whisper of a whine pushes past my lips and I obediently bow my head, resuming my former position. This did work as I intended, she knows my thoughts were genuine and is assured of my position. I’ve spoken more than my piece and moved without permission, but that is easily punished. Sometimes, I’ve found, it’s necessary to accept a punishment to do what I know to be best, but I’m not certain that actually usurps her authority. In this case, it’s a rather expected scene. We play it out as intended, each within our roles. 

“You appease me with flowery words, little brother, but the fact remains that you disappointed me,” she rests her hand over the place she smacked, feeling the heat through my pants. I feel the weighted expectation. She’s testing to see if I’ll attempt to further placate her, thus revealing myself as self-interested and my motivations as impure, or if I’ll quietly submit, thus showing the earlier demonstration as merely for her benefit. 

I would think to wonder if it’s a successful test, as I know it to be one, but that’s also ultimately unimportant, as no circumstance will change my answer. “Yes.” My agreement is solemn, and a tad bitter. She wishes to ensure my shame is drawn to its peak before she will relieve me of it. “My sorrow fills me up completely.”

Her other hand finds its way to my hair and she strokes me, sliding her fingers through it. There is love, acceptance, and mercy in her touch. Trying to hold both images of her in mind at once is nearly enough to make me cry itself. She is love, warmth, forgiveness. She allows me another chance. She comforts me. But she is also cruelty, punishment, and pain. She grows my shame, though only that she may reap it. How can someone be everything at once? It’s a disconcerting contradiction, but somewhat fitting, as she is my world. And I needn’t worry about it. My decision is made, I am hers. All else can be decided by her. And for this exact moment, she comforts me. 

“Don’t worry, sweet Korekiyo. We will handle this matter, you will apologize, and we will be free to enjoy dinner together,” she tells me softly, gentle voice matching her actions. It’s a balm on my soul, but it’s hardly time to be soothed. We still have the bulk of the ritual to perform. And, sure enough, her hands harden, and her tone drops, “Are you ready to begin?” 

“Yes.” There is no need for this to be a question, but Sister does prefer to see that I am willing in all things she does to me. Though we both know I’d never refuse, I couldn’t refuse, it is still symbolically important for me to verbally indicate my consent. I prefer it too. I wish to show her, in all things, that I have given myself to her entirely. The decision was made long ago, yes, but it is an active one that I support and will repeat, again and again, throughout this life and the next. She has never forced me because she has never needed to. She can not take from me because everything I have and everything I am is freely given. When we read about other cultures and when I observe other people, I see nothing in love that matches my feelings. I know that I love her and I do this out of love for her, but I see not that possibility reflected back to me. The only time that I see a devotion that matches my own, is in religion. And only select ones at that. The gods that require sacrifices or lifelong servitude for the mere reward of being in their presence. Those are the figures that match my Sister. She would not call herself a goddess, her impact on the rest of the world is far too small and she’s painfully aware of her own mortality, but she is mine. My life will forever be one of delighted subjugation. And I am blessed. 

Sister lifts her hand and I can see it in my mind, though my eyes are closed and my face resting against the cushion. She has such beautiful, delicate hands. She’s got it slightly cupped so that I’ll feel the snap of her fingers first, as that will enhance the sting of it, and she can make use of her full leverage. Her wrist is assuredly loose to direct the impact as she pleases. The strike of her hand, just above my thigh, confirms my visualization. This is all so familiar. Occasionally that makes me feel rather guilty, but it occurs to me that it isn’t my place to judge the amount of my failures. Though they seem to me to be numerous, Sister would tell me if that were unacceptable. Instead, each time, everything is erased with a proper punishment. 

I have some difficulty keeping my mind on what she is doing. The swats are rhythmic and sharp. It does hurt and that pain draws my attention, but they blur together in my mind. It’s not intentional. I wouldn’t try to lessen the difficulty of the experience by being distracted from the pain and guilt, but directing my thoughts isn’t something I’m all that good at, and my awareness tends toward too broad. 

She senses my distraction and increases her force without comment. I’m rather grateful to be spared the shame of a verbal correction on this matter. She shifts my weight forward so that I’ll be slightly more, stretching the skin between my butt and thighs more tightly. Her slap this time drives a soft cry from my lips and I find with relief that I can focus on little else now. The pain radiates from the spot of impact, spreading outward as it dissipates, but I cannot track it further because she strikes me again in the same spot. It’s a ripple effect, the pain refreshed and spreading along the same lines. That’s the new pattern, two swats in the same spot in quick succession, then two more somewhere else. Each strike hurts on its own, and every second strike hurts more. But the overall accumulative effect is what's important. By now, the entirety of each buttock and a couple of inches down each thigh is warm and slightly sore. 

“Stand,” she tips me back so that is easier for me to get my footing. Once my feet are firmly on the floor, I straighten, rising from my position. The change in orientation causes a tear to slip down my cheek, though I’d been previously unaware that they had collected in my eyes. I suppose my physical awareness was otherwise directed. 

I keep my eyes down and wait expectantly. Sister brushes the tear from my face and smoothes down my hair before unbuttoning my pants. Her movements are certain and deliberate, practiced. She pushes them down to my knees, then slides down my underwear exposed. As a rule, none of my skin is visible except a small band around my eyes. One, including myself, might expect that that would mean I felt exposed by being undressed. However, feeling exposed relies on the expectation of being hidden, and while it is true that this is a deviation from the norm in the sense of physicality, all that she wishes to see is available to her. My soul itself, if such a thing exists, is laid bare before her, and that quite diminishes the relevance of the position of my trousers. 

“Let us continue, my sweet Korekiyo,” she guides me by the shoulder into resuming my former position. I’m anticipating an increase in pain and ensure that my hands are securely grasping the throw cushion before we begin. 

It seems this was as far as the warm up would go, as she picks up the hairbrush before continuing. The pattern differs slightly based on her feelings, and this shows me that she’s still quite cross with me. The more gradual the build up, the more tolerable the sensations. She’s not going to allow me to continue to accept my punishment with dignity; I’ve not earned that courtesy. The shame feels heavy, but it will be gone soon enough. 

The first strike is hard and solid. Though thin, her hands have yielding flesh, and a wooden hairbrush does not. The force hits all at once and dissipates through the tissue. It’s quite painful and I pitch slightly forward, clenching my fists around the pillow. This is a tad ominous. The second strike is harder and I cry out, albeit softly. I wonder if that’s my natural response? I don’t stop myself from crying, that isn’t required or desired of me. But I am always subdued, quiet. Am I truly able to relinquish that inhibition? Or do I merely feel as though I do?

It’s getting to be hard to focus now. Blows rain down without rhythm, each one with a solid smack. Some are upturned to the tops of my thighs and bottom of my buttocks. These ones will be painful after the fact. If they bruise, especially. Is that what I deserve? What marks will I be left with this time? Other swats are fuller, making use of her whole arm, the fall off center and throb after. I’m crying now, tears fall from my eyes and apologies from my lips. What I’m saying is involuntary and unimportant. As long as it contains nothing of defiance or protest, I’m free to say what I wish. And it has been a very long time since I’ve offered the merest hint of objection. My hands begin to ache from staying rigid for so long, but I cannot risk letting go, lest I interrupt. 

“There, there, Korekiyo,” Sister’s words soothe me. She must feel my tension and slightly rising anxiety. She angles me forward, it’s time for the portion of most intensity. 

She hits under the curve of my buttock with side of the brush, and the blow is terribly biting in its intensity. I feel my face pale beneath my mask and I scream properly. The sound is loud and shrill, it hurts my ears and throat and signals to her that I’m as out of control as she ought allow. Her arm locks around my waist, securing my continued submission. I’m grateful and repeated expressions of gratitude replace the stream of apologies. She hits the corresponding spot on the other side and I’m driven to buck against her. Thank goodness she is able to hold me in place. What will we do when I am closer to her size? Will she even be around that long? 

The blows repeat, the exact same location, with the same amount of force. I’m writhing and struggling, but blessedly trapped. The ache gets deeper and deeper. She wants me to remember this punishment. I will. My actions get more frenzied as my thoughts go still. 

“Please,” it’s almost a whisper, mixed in with my crying, and I’m horrified when she freezes. I hadn’t meant to. I was merely overwhelmed. But what excuse will suffice? A failure to accept her treatment is the most basic form of disobedience. All I needed to do was refrain, but somehow this plea slipped past my attention. My guilt swallows me and I don’t know how to see past it. 

“What was that, little brother?” her voice’s hard edge isn’t enough. I know I deserve more. She’s merely waiting for me to confess the sin. 

“I said “please,”” I struggle to keep my voice audible, as it seeks to slip into silence, “It was meant as a request for less pain. It was involuntary. I have no excuse.” 

“Ah, I am disappointed again today,” the way she sighs makes me want to shatter. “What shall I do?” 

I consider my options. I’m off kilter and unable to think wholly rationally. I know this. But I still must formulate an answer. Is she wanting me to suggest a punishment? I know of nothing suitable. I could not possibly imagine a fire hot enough to burn off this shame. To have the most workable metal, one must heat it far beyond the normal point, what is pure and good to use will remain, but impurities and imperfections will burn away. I feel I will burn in entirety before I am pure. Would I be forgiven then? 

“I’m waiting,” she gives me a second prompt and I feel myself tremble. I cannot think clearly. What do I do? How do I communicate my thoughts? How do I ascertain what she wants of me? I slide off of her lap and onto my knees, my forehead pressed into the floor. I cannot get low enough. I’m crying so hard, I can barely breathe now. I don’t think I can speak at all. 

“Calm yourself, Korekiyo,” it’s a tone of indulgence and fondness. She knows I cannot be more than I am in this moment. She accepts me anyway. I would think that she shouldn’t, but that decision is above me. It lies only with her. 

I don’t know how to calm myself. I’m still young, I still need help to calm down. That’s not unusual. But I don’t know that I’ll receive the help that I need. There must be another way. My heart is beating so fast it hurts, I’m still crying, my breathing is shaky and uneven. I’m afraid and guilty and I feel so small. 

“Calm yourself, Korekiyo,” the repetition isn’t a problem. She’s just trying to direct my thoughts. She’s patient, even now. She’s kind. She’s teaching me. I just need to learn. I have to be able to sort this through myself. She won’t always be here to help me. 

I’m still curled up on the ground and I force one steady breath into my lungs and hold it. I breathe out just as slowly, even as my diaphragm clenches and my shoulders shudder around it. I mustn't waver. I’m strong. I can handle this too. There are times when it’s acceptable to be out of control, but this isn’t one. I mustn’t stutter. When I speak, my voice must be clear. But first I have to get my voice back. I breathe in and out again, the slow fill of my lungs calms my racing heart. That’s the secret, I remember now. My thoughts can do what they like, even as they race around, I can be still in the middle. I just need to breathe through it. Then I’ll be able to stop crying and speak. Once I have the ability, my thoughts should fall in line. I was trying to go about this all backwards. Thank goodness that Sister is here to teach me. 

“There now,” there’s a smile in her voice now that I’ve regained my composure. “Lift your head.” 

I follow instructions and lift my eyes to hers. All at once I feel content and safe. She still looks at me in love. Nothing is unfixable. Sister loves me, she will take care of me. Even though I fail, time and again, she will improve me. I am blessed.


End file.
